altitude making her breathe hard, causing an audible beat in her chest. The rest had all worn shorts and looked like trekkers in their high socks and weathered boots. Willem and Arthur actually sported khaki shirts and shorts. Patrick had on a well-worn T-shirt that read
McGovern
.
Despite the slight punishment to the chest, exhilaration gave Margaret determination and made her light-headed. On the way to the first knuckle, the view of the Rift was beyond anything she had been prepared for—vast and deep and seemingly endless. The temperature down in the valley would be well over a hundred degrees. It might be possible for the inhabitants down there—the Masai, now too far away to be seen—to believe they are the sole people on earth, the chosen, in charge of, if not humbled by, all that surrounds them. To come from such raw beauty would almost certainly instill a sense of superiority. Margaret knew the Nilotic Masai to be intractable in their beliefs and customs: the nomadic life, their adherence to ritual, and their diet of cows’ blood and milk, an unenviable regimen that nevertheless made them enviably lean and long.
They passed grasslands like English meadows, fields of wild-flowers with dozens of species, some of which no one in the party could name. The climb produced, in addition to exhilaration, a soporific haze, and sometimes Margaret wanted nothing more than to leave the trail and lie down among those flowers. It seemed reward enough. Why climb farther away from paradise? Simply to say she’d done it? She vowed that after the Mount Kenya climb, Patrick and she would return to this spot and linger.
The landscape was green and fertile and rolling, and she understood at once why the Brits had settled here. They passed remnants of old farms: foundations, stone walls, and paths that seemed made by animals. Patrick came round from behind and put his arm over Margaret’s shoulder.
“How are you doing?”
“I’m loving it,” she answered, aware of the breathless quality of her words.
“Stop when you want and take a rest. We can always catch up. The trail is easy to follow.”
Margaret wanted to say yes, let’s leave the others, experience this as a couple, but something inside her (conformity? not wanting to cause a scene? pride?) made her smile and shake her head.
“I’m fine,” she said.
When they finally stopped for a picnic, Margaret felt as though she couldn’t take another step. The altitude had made the steady pounding beat more insistent. She needed water, and she wanted it soon. She forgot who had the water. In her own backpack, she carried a bottle of wine and a loaf of fresh-baked bread—delicious in other circumstances, of little use to her now.
She sat down where she stood. The lovely grass was deceptive: not soft but sharp and spiny and painful. She drew her knees up and bent her head to them. It was a defeated posture that embarrassed her, but it was the best she could manage. Patrick touched her back.
“Water,” she whispered.
Patrick handed Margaret a canteen, and she held it with both hands, letting the water fall into her mouth.
“Easy, Margaret,” he said. “This has to last the whole hike.”
She stopped and held the canteen upright. She had drunk perhaps two-thirds of the water. She reasoned that the worst was over, that they had accomplished the long hike to the top of the Ngong Hills and had conquered at least one peak. She thought about her pompous pronouncement to Arthur in the car.
I didn’t come here to conquer
.
Arthur and Willem, who had been carrying wider packs than the rest, produced, as if by sleight of hand, canvas stools to sit on.
“Never sit directly on the grass,” Arthur said when he delivered Margaret’s. He helped her to stand and then to sit. She began to forgive him his pretentious khaki outfit. He didn’t tell her why she couldn’t sit directly on the grass.
Several feet away, Diana and Saartje had produced a magic canvas table.
McGovern
.
Despite the slight punishment to the chest, exhilaration gave Margaret determination and made her light-headed. On the way to the first knuckle, the view of the Rift was beyond anything she had been prepared for—vast and deep and seemingly endless. The temperature down in the valley would be well over a hundred degrees. It might be possible for the inhabitants down there—the Masai, now too far away to be seen—to believe they are the sole people on earth, the chosen, in charge of, if not humbled by, all that surrounds them. To come from such raw beauty would almost certainly instill a sense of superiority. Margaret knew the Nilotic Masai to be intractable in their beliefs and customs: the nomadic life, their adherence to ritual, and their diet of cows’ blood and milk, an unenviable regimen that nevertheless made them enviably lean and long.
They passed grasslands like English meadows, fields of wild-flowers with dozens of species, some of which no one in the party could name. The climb produced, in addition to exhilaration, a soporific haze, and sometimes Margaret wanted nothing more than to leave the trail and lie down among those flowers. It seemed reward enough. Why climb farther away from paradise? Simply to say she’d done it? She vowed that after the Mount Kenya climb, Patrick and she would return to this spot and linger.
The landscape was green and fertile and rolling, and she understood at once why the Brits had settled here. They passed remnants of old farms: foundations, stone walls, and paths that seemed made by animals. Patrick came round from behind and put his arm over Margaret’s shoulder.
“How are you doing?”
“I’m loving it,” she answered, aware of the breathless quality of her words.
“Stop when you want and take a rest. We can always catch up. The trail is easy to follow.”
Margaret wanted to say yes, let’s leave the others, experience this as a couple, but something inside her (conformity? not wanting to cause a scene? pride?) made her smile and shake her head.
“I’m fine,” she said.
When they finally stopped for a picnic, Margaret felt as though she couldn’t take another step. The altitude had made the steady pounding beat more insistent. She needed water, and she wanted it soon. She forgot who had the water. In her own backpack, she carried a bottle of wine and a loaf of fresh-baked bread—delicious in other circumstances, of little use to her now.
She sat down where she stood. The lovely grass was deceptive: not soft but sharp and spiny and painful. She drew her knees up and bent her head to them. It was a defeated posture that embarrassed her, but it was the best she could manage. Patrick touched her back.
“Water,” she whispered.
Patrick handed Margaret a canteen, and she held it with both hands, letting the water fall into her mouth.
“Easy, Margaret,” he said. “This has to last the whole hike.”
She stopped and held the canteen upright. She had drunk perhaps two-thirds of the water. She reasoned that the worst was over, that they had accomplished the long hike to the top of the Ngong Hills and had conquered at least one peak. She thought about her pompous pronouncement to Arthur in the car.
I didn’t come here to conquer
.
Arthur and Willem, who had been carrying wider packs than the rest, produced, as if by sleight of hand, canvas stools to sit on.
“Never sit directly on the grass,” Arthur said when he delivered Margaret’s. He helped her to stand and then to sit. She began to forgive him his pretentious khaki outfit. He didn’t tell her why she couldn’t sit directly on the grass.
Several feet away, Diana and Saartje had produced a magic canvas table.
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